


Compromising

by turingtestflunker



Series: Checks and Balances [6]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Chronic Pain, Cunnilingus, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Making Out, Multi, Permanent Injury, Politics, Secrets, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, implied knifeplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-03 02:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13331454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turingtestflunker/pseuds/turingtestflunker
Summary: Donna tries to learn how to work with Josh again. There are complicating factors.





	1. Whereas...

Joining the Santos campaign is surreal. It was inevitable, to the victors go the spoils, but Donna still didn’t want to do it. Losing to the Santos campaign didn’t just hurt because it was so unexpected, it hurt because it was Josh. Watching the Russell campaign be outmaneuvered at every turn at a Convention that was theirs to lose… She tried to warn Will. He listened to her, he’d always actually listened to her. But he didn’t understand until after.

After, passing bottles of booze around a double suite full of defeated people who weren’t ready to face the prospect of sleep yet. They told her that it wasn’t as bad as losing a general election. Donna has never lost a general election, so she doesn’t know if that’s true, but it was bad enough. Maybe more for her.

Working for Josh was like listening to music on headphones all the time. Loud music. Sometimes the music was beautiful, other times horrible, but it was always the only thing she could hear. Talking to C.J., getting headhunted, and the million other little things that made her realize she had value outside of working for Josh, was like hearing sounds through the headphones. Finally leaving was like taking them off. Occasionally she missed the music, but hearing the world was better.

After the Convention, Donna holed up in a budget business traveler type place. She caught up on sleep, watched the news, and checked her email. Not all the Russell people got offered jobs with the Santos campaign. Some ended up volunteering. Donna swore to herself she wouldn’t do that, would never walk into Josh’s office again and beg for a place. But she kept checking her Blackberry because she knew that if she was asked, she’d go.

And she was asked. Of course she was asked. Not right away, because that would be like admitting that he needed her, but soon enough to be telling. Not with his personal email address, but in a message that Donna could tell wasn’t a form letter. He’d hidden behind the campaign, but Josh had written the email. He’d asked for her help, and he’d offered her a real job. So, feeling numb and a little sick to her stomach, Donna went.

To catch up with the campaign, she flew standby on a cheapo airline instead of calling to ask for tickets. Someone is waiting for her on the other side. Not Josh, a very young man clearly playing errand boy.  He offers to take her bag, she smiles and politely refuses. She’s been living out of it for the last six months and she carries it herself. Her legs started hurting on the plane, cooped up in a middle seat with no way to stretch out. The long walk from the terminal to the car doesn’t help.

She gets to the hotel around midnight. It’s nice. Nicer than she would’ve expected. Donna’s errand boy hands her a room key and disappears. She’s already getting messages on her Blackberry. She goes up to her room and discovers that she has it to herself, which doesn’t sit right. She’s got a real job, an important job, but she shouldn’t be _that_ important. Donna wouldn’t give someone in her position their own room, if she was running the campaign. But she isn’t, so she lets it go.

Donna goes through all the emails in her inbox from the Russell campaign and deletes them one by one, except for the few that she saves in case they might come in handy. She logs into her new Santos campaign email account and goes through all the “welcome aboard” messages. Josh sent her one too, because it would be weird not to. It’s a form letter. Donna recognizes it because, except for a few modifications, she wrote it. If he’s kept his email setup like she left it, it probably sent itself when she got added to the mailing list. Reading it makes her feel empty. Donna reads it again and again until some part of her brain recognizes the tailspin and pulls her out of it.

Mechanically, she sets the Blackberry to priority alerts only and plugs it into the outlet at the base of the lamp. She’s never seen that before. It’s nice, certainly better than unplugging the alarm clock, but she can’t help but wonder how much more a hotel with fancy lamps from the future must cost. Donna drifts off sketching out a dynamic cost/benefit analysis.

\---

Getting up at 4am is an old habit. Not just one that’s easy to sink back into, but one she never fully shook. She spent many lonely but productive mornings working alone at Russell HQ, waiting for the morning shows to air and the rest of the campaign to trickle in.  That isn’t an issue here. So far as Donna can tell, the Santos campaign never sleeps. There’s the occasional lull in the mid-morning or late evening, but they don’t correspond to any scheduled events. Otherwise everything is non-stop. Volunteers and staffers blend in a seamless and chaotic mix, haunting the halls at all hours with their faces lit sickly blue by laptops plugged into every available outlet.  

Everyday, Donna wakes up. She makes bad instant coffee in her room and then picks up her Blackberry and enters the fray. She’s on TV most days, which surprises her. After the Chicken Incident, she expected to be kept firmly behind the camera. They’re not prime slots, mostly early mornings weekdays, but they’re solid slots, more solid than they look on the surface. The average voter might not be watching CNN at 5:30am on a Wednesday, but hardcore activists, operatives and donors are. Donna pitches her performances accordingly. So far as she can tell, she does well. She gets invited back onto shows, someone in the campaign keeps scheduling her.

She does other things, too. Detail work, mostly: leaving notes on show prep notes about particular turns of phrase that are likely to go over well with a particular anchor or audience, she writes some of the letters to donors, and increasingly she finds herself helping Mrs. Santos prepare for her appearances.

Mrs. Santos, who insists that Donna call her Helen, is a bit of a mystery. She’s intelligent, not just witty but deeply insightful, but she shows complete disinterest in crucial details of the campaign. She’s sharp and aloof but also kind at unexpected moments. She smiles all the time, perfect crimson lipstick against gleaming white teeth, and Donna can tell that she’s deeply unhappy. Writing for Helen is wonderful, she always understands just what Donna means and she never needs to be told the same thing twice. She’s very, very good at making her appearances. Honestly, Donna doubts that Helen needs her help, but she seems to enjoy the company because Donna finds herself on the “wife detail” more and more as the campaign wears on.

The things Donna notices most are absences. She never does get a roommate, even after sending an email suggesting the campaign assign her one. The security detail waves her past the metal detectors and never pats her down. They don’t even ask her about it. She doesn’t have a boss. No one tells her to do the things she does, she just does them. It’s fine, it works, but it’s wrong. She should have a boss, someone should be telling her to do things. And that person should be Josh. He’s the campaign manager. She not his secretary anymore, but she still works for him. She should hear from him, she should see him, at least, in person and at less than 100 paces.  

She doesn’t. It just doesn’t happen and it’s just silly. Donna and Josh are working together, coordinating, interfacing almost the way they used to and somehow they’re doing it without talking to each other. Why? Because Josh has a sore ego about her quitting. Because of the stupid on-again off-again crush she used to have? It’s ridiculous, it’s petty, it’s inefficient. There’s nothing she can do about it. Josh has someone else answering her emails to him. He disappears every time she tries to cross paths with him. He’s just decided that he’s going to have Donna on his campaign AND pretend she doesn’t exist. It’s laughable, but he’s decided, and trying to fight it is like swimming against the tide. At some point, Donna just stops trying.


	2. Although...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donna watches Josh like a sailor watches the ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Note: Towards the end of this there is frank discussion of the aftermath of Donna's injuries in Gaza. This includes explicit references to orthopedic implants in a sexual context. I would've tagged it, but I wasn't sure what tag to use.

Tides don’t move in straight lines. Ocean metaphors don't come naturally to Donna, but nothing more familiar really fits Josh. The winter snows and summer thunderstorms of her native Wisconsin are brutal, destructive, but predictable. You can buy an almanac. You can batten down the hatches. You can be prepared. Dealing with Josh isn't like that. Dealing with Josh is like dancing on quicksand. Like living on a flood plain and knowing everything you own could be washed away in an instant. Like being a sailor on fickle seas. 

The campaign continues. Everywhere there's this sense of fevered urgency. Donna doesn't feel it. She just works, like she always has. From four in the morning until her BlackBerry stops buzzing with new emergencies. She gets a grim satisfaction from typing on into the wee hours while the bright young things stagger off to bed. Or floor, she hears rumors that Josh has them stacked up six to a room.

The relentless tide that keeps her away from Josh shifts. It doesn't reverse, doesn't draw her in right away, but Donna notices that she can get closer to him. She sees him more, passing in halls and harassing the volunteers. He starts sending her emails. Nothing personal, just the normal sort of ‘heads-up’ and ‘fix this’ messages she should have been getting all along. Next come written notes on drafts, and then awkward little chats here and there about the press and the candidate’s schedule. Donna would have been happy with that, if it had stopped there. That's all she's ever wanted from Josh, aside from that silly, recurring school girl crush: a normal, productive working relationship. 

It doesn't stop there. The tide turns. Donna finds herself being pulled closer instead of pushed away. It's little, predictable things at first. Josh starts touching her. It’s all perfectly acceptable, appropriate touches to her arms and shoulders, collegial pats and almost accidental brushes in passing. Donna hates herself a little for the way her heart flutters every time it happens. She isn’t stupid, Josh has only ever touched her when he wants something. It’s not hard to guess what he wants now. Donna knows she should ask him to stop. She doesn't.

That isn't the point of no return, though. If it had stopped there, she might have been able to hold out. It doesn’t stop there. The point of no return is the moment one sunny afternoon when she catches Josh looking at her from across the war room. Not sexually, he used to do that all the time when she worked for him. Never seriously, but idly, the way someone might look at a picture in a magazine. This isn't that. It’s not a Look either, not a silent command. Donna would know, she’s fully fluent in the language of Josh’s furrowed brow. 

He's looking at her with genuine curiosity. Sizing her up, analyzing her. Donna can count the times Josh has really looked at her on one hand, he'd never needed to. She was predictable, a known quantity. No one scrutinizes their furniture. Standing stock still with a cup of coffee forgotten in her hand, looking at Josh looking at her, Donna doesn't feel like furniture. In that moment, her resolve crumbles. 

After that, it’s inevitable. They’re going to fuck. There are intermediate steps, closer more lingering touches, longer glances, but they’re just that: intermediate, steps on the way to predetermined end. Like backfilling the red tape to justify what you were already going to do anyway. Exactly, like that, actually: time consuming and tiresome. Donna counts the days that drag past as Josh escalates his attempts at flirtation at a glacial pace. She doesn’t know what he’s waiting for.

The day before Josh finally makes his move, Donna can feel it coming, something in the air like the still before a thunderstorm. That evening, a bunch of of the higher level staffers get together to eat dinner and NOT watch CNN in the hotel’s restaurant. She and Josh sit near each other, but not with each other, and quietly get drunk enough to justify themselves. Just one of those things, you know. Just blowing off a little steam. Everyone does it, right? 

Donna announces, perhaps a little too conspicuously, that she’s ready for bed. She ‘forgets’ her hotel room key under her cocktail napkin. Annoyingly, one of Mrs. Santos’s aides notices and helpfully/unhelpfully hands it back to her. Donna thanks her and then locks eyes with Josh from across the table. If he thinks this is an excuse to chicken out, he needs to think again. 

She goes to her room. She doesn’t bother turning on the light. She leaves the door ajar. She kicks off her heels and peels off her pantyhose and lays back on the bed. Waiting. For Josh. Isn’t she always? He doesn’t make her wait long. Donna hears him coming, hears him start to knock but stop when he realizes the door is open. He closes it quietly behind him. He doesn’t turn on the light. 

Donna isn’t sure what to expect. She’s imagined this, of course, but sex never turns out the way she imagines it. The first thing she feels is his hand on her ankle, then the dip of the bed as he climbs in with her.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, his lips hovering beside her ear.

Donna says, “Yes.”

He kisses her. Not on the mouth, but everywhere else: her ear, her cheek, her closed eyelids. He works his way down her neck, fumbling with the buttons of her blouse until she undoes them. He kisses her breasts through her bra, kisses her belly. He stops when he reaches her hip and lays a gentle hand on her thigh, just a hair shy of one of the bigger screws.

“Let me know if I hurt you,” he says.

Donna would laugh, but then he’s pulling down her skirt and parting her legs and this is it. She listens for the sound of Josh unzipping his pants. It doesn’t come. He kisses her over her panties and then gently pulls them down her legs. And then…  _ Oh! _ A couple of Donna’s boyfriends have done this for her, but always sort of halfheartedly, as if they were waiting for her to give up and fake it or tell them to stop. Not like this. 

What he’s doing is so soft, and tender, and yet it feels like he’s devouring her. He’s not inside her, but she feels open and raw and he doesn’t stop. Donna wants to moan, wants to cry out and make lots of loud, incriminating noises. She doesn’t. She gasps and reaches up to grasp at Josh’s head and shoulders. He makes a protesting noise when she grabs at the place where his shoulder meets his neck. Donna winces, she didn’t mean to be rough. She lets her hands fall to her sides until Josh takes one of them in his and guides it to his hair. 

The plates in Donna’s legs creak under the tension as she strains to bring him closer. Her hands tighten in Josh’s hair as she comes. She bites her lip to keep from crying out. It seems to go on forever, and when she finally comes down, Donna feels her whole body relax. Josh awkwardly scooches up the bed and wraps his arms around her. It’s wonderful. But…

“What about….” she trails off awkwardly. She can feel Josh’s erection through his pants. 

“I, uh…” Josh falters, “I don’t have a condom. It’s fine.”

Something rings false, but Donna doesn’t argue. Josh pulls the sheets up over both of them and continues to hold her. Just before she falls asleep, Donna allows herself to believe that things really will be different this time. 


	3. ...and whereas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donna wants things to be different between her and Josh. Be careful what you wish for.

The second time begins simply enough. Josh makes the first move, smoothly passing her a room key while looking over a statement she'd prepared. Donna takes it and doesn't let go, keeping it grasped tightly in her left hand until she has a chance to discreetly tuck it into her bra. 

She sees him again later that night, at the hotel bar. Half the campaign staff are there, drinking and watching CNN. It's become a bit of a routine. Josh is distinguishing himself by yelling loudly at the television and messily knocking back shots of whiskey. Today's news cycle had started out promisingly and then crashed and burned around prime time.

Donna takes another sip of her fourth glass of white wine. She doesn't chug hard liquor like Josh does and she certainly doesn't have his tolerance, but she can sip her way through a bottle or two of wine with surprising speed these days.

Josh is still ranting and raving at the TV like a madman. He’s dancing on the line between acceptable eccentricity and the sort of thing that makes people capital 'C’ Concerned. He needs someone to help him. It used to be that someone would be her. Maybe she will be again.

Donna becomes aware of the plastic key card pressed against her breast. She moves without thinking, finishing her wine in one long swallow and crossing the room to put a hand on Josh's shoulder. 

“Hey,” she says, all soft and unobtrusive, “It's getting late, you should head up to your room and get some rest.”

He doesn't startle when she touches him, and before he opens his mouth she knows she has him. This is familiar for both of them, Josh's big flailing self destructive ego and Donna making herself small and sneaking right past. It feels like scratching new scar tissue; painful, guilty, and viciously satisfying.

He looks over his shoulder at her for a long moment before saying, “Yeah, you're right. It's going to be a hell of a day tomorrow.”

Donna watches him go. She can feel the other staffers looking at her. They know. It doesn't matter. Most people have ‘gotten on board’ by this point in the campaign and everyone ‘knows’ that Josh Lyman has been fucking his secretary for years. 

Donna pretends that she cares what they think and waits a respectable amount of time before she pays her tab and heads to the elevators. She's pretty sure no one sees her press the button for Josh's floor instead of her own.

The room key works. Josh is waiting for her, sitting uneasily at the end of his unmade bed. He stands up as Donna carefully closes the door behind her. There's a long awkward moment. She looks at him. He's drunk, his clothes are rumpled, he looks older than he did when she quit. She wonders if she really wants to do this.

And then she's kissing him. He seems surprised at first, but responds passionately. He pulls her closer, pressing their bodies together. He's not hard, but given last time, maybe that isn't a problem. Donna pulls away from the kiss and moans as they both gulp down air. 

She kisses her way down his neck. Josh moans loudly and an electric feeling sparks between Donna's legs. She kisses his neck more ferociously than before, even working up the courage to nip lightly here and there. Josh is melting in her hands, the sounds he's making are driving her crazy. It's so good. They're really doing this.

She draws him closer with one hand on the back of his neck, while her other hand goes to the buttons of his shirt. As soon as he feels her touching him there, Josh is reaching for her hands, but he's too late. Three buttons of his shirt are open and she's kissing the crook of his neck and his shoulder, working her way down…

And then Josh makes a sound. A different kind of sound. Not a good sound. A low hissing growl of pain. She pulls away to see what's wrong and, and, and…

He's been cut. Not accidentally, but in close parallel lines starting just below the collar. Somebody did this to him, and the lines are too perfect for him to have fought back.

Donna instinctively takes a step back. Her hands fly to her mouth, "Oh God! What happened?"

Josh looks bereft, standing there with his shirt half unbuttoned, with his arms hanging limply by his sides. He won't look at her.

"Nothing I didn't ask for,” he mumbles.

Oh no.

"Josh..." she says gently, "There's nothing you could have done to deserve this"

"I'm not being stupid, Donna!" Josh snaps, “I literally asked him for it”.

For a moment it just doesn't compute, "What?"

Josh's eyes flash with anger, "I got on my knees and begged the next president of the United States to cut me, and he did."

The terrible thing is that Donna can  _ see _ it. She doesn't understand, but she can't  **stop** seeing it, the insane final conclusion of the rough, possessive way she's seen the Congressman grab Josh by the shoulder, the way Josh looks back at him: Josh on his knees, crying ecstatically while Matt Santos carves into him. 

"Do you want to see where he put his initials?" Josh asks caustically.

She really, really doesn't.

"He told me it was a bad idea, but I was very,  _ very _ persuasive" Josh hisses spitefully.

He pulls aside the strap of his undershirt to show her. Donna's seen Santos's initials hundreds of times, on FEC documents, next to edits on speeches. There they are, written out neatly on Josh's shoulder. Unmistakable. These cuts are deeper than the others. They're going to scar.

Donna blinks back tears, "Josh..."

"I knew this wouldn't work" he spits bitterly.

Josh is buttoning up his shirt. There are words to fix this, Donna knows there are, but she can't seem to think of them fast enough.

"Josh, please, I didn't mean..." she tries, but he's already shutting down. There's no talking to him when he's like this.

Donna leaves and Josh slams the door behind her. She walks away in a numb haze, feeling as if she was still working for him and he'd just shut her out of his office in some petty rage. It isn't until she gets back to her hotel room that she realizes she's been crying.

**Author's Note:**

> Holy shit is Josh/Donna unhealthy! Like, I may have to write a comprehensive meta about how unhealthy they are for each other. Run, Donna! There's still time! Also, sometimes I forget I'm writing a period piece and then I remember that hotel lamps you can charge your phone at were fancy/futuristic in 2006.


End file.
